BEAVERKILL
... MY
BEAVERKILL
It
was with the
Daubek brothers
That
I first visited
Secret Pond.
It
was the magic
of that place
That
lured me soon
to the Beaverkill
beyond.
Secret
Pond was part
of the river,
Sort
of an off-shoot,
slip-off pool.
It
drew this country
boy like a magnet
To
fish there,
whenever out
of school.
The
pool above was
Charlie Allen’s.
The
downstream pool
was Sliding
Rock
“Only
fair fishing,”
said the purists
in tweeds.
To
which I replied,
“Yeah, right…what
a crock!”
I
learned to swim
above a rock
dam at Charlie’s
Made
by volunteer
firemen to add
water to the
old Mill Race.
Later,
when I demonstrated
my aquatic skills
to Mom,
My
half-underwater
thrashing put
a smile on her
face.
Once
drown-proof,
or so I thought,
I
hastened on
downstream to
tackle the slide.
The
rock’s broad
side slanted
down and into
the water,
And
when well-lathered
up could provide
a helluva ride.
As
a young
boy,
I played
much;
As
I grew older,
I fished more.
I
caught fish,
too…lots of
fish
Which
often made grown
men sore.
................
I
clearly recall
a 25/5 brown
caught at Charlie’s.
That
to this day
is my biggest
trout ever.
................
Catching
that monster
on a homemade
lure
Provided
an experience
I’ll remember
forever.
Enhancing
the memory was
the presence
of my cheering
squad.
Claude
and Fritz were
there hollering
and hooting.
Claude
came armed with
a sawed-off
12 gauge.
While
Fritz was yelling…He
was shooting.
I
caught an 18/3
at Sliding Rock,
And
hauled in a
22/3+ from Secret
Pond.
Though
I have caught
many fish, big
and small, since
then,
It’s
the memories
of those three
of which I’m
most fond.
Upstream
of Charlie’s,
about half a
mile
At
the end of my
stretch was
the Stuhlmiller
Hole.
It
was/is the quintessential
Catskill trout
pool.
I
headed there
often when a
mess of trout
was my goal.
I
recall fishing
there once with
Jan TerLouw:
I
was fishing
bait; he was
casting flies.
When
I tell of the
dozen trout
I caught…all
over a foot,
TerLouw
can attest that
I’m not telling
lies.
The
downstream terminus
of my stretch
was Pete’s Eddy.
It
was wider and
flatter…more
suited for bass.
But
an occasional
big trout could
be found
Slurping
flies from its
surface of glass.
Purists
decried the
feisty smallmouths
That
clobbered whatever
they threw into
the water at
Pete’s.
I
just caught
‘em and kept
‘em;
Took
‘em home for
some mighty
fine eats.
Sliding
Rock and Stuhlmiller’s
were deep water
pools,
With
incoming rapids
cutting around
and under large
boulders.
................
Their
waters were
tame, however,
quite friendly
to a boy.
I
often waded
in right up
to my shoulders.
Pete’s
and Charlie’s
waters were
slower and calmer,
And
plenty deep
enough for a
refreshing swim.
On
hot summer days
when the fish
wouldn’t bite,
We
learned to swim
there, together,
me and Jim.
The
main four pools
of my mile long
stretch
Lay
at the base,
to the east
of steep Bon
Air ridge.
Mountain
shade daily
cooled the pools’
western edges,
and
Late
afternoon/evening
fishing was
often productive
with minnow
or midge.
Shade
from the mountains
on both sides
of the stream
Limited
the time each
day when swimming
was fun.
Our
bathing was
done mid day,
into mid afternoon,
If
we wanted to
enjoy the warmth
of the sun.
There
was a lot of
water between
Charlie’s and
Stuhlmiller’s,
And
nearly as much
between Pete’s
and the Rock.
There
were riffles
aplenty, with
shallower water…smaller
pools.
Their
western edge
cooled by mountain
shade and overhanging
hemlock.
My
initiation into
the fine sport
of flyfishing
Was
undertaken just
above Charlie’s
at Archer’s
run.
Hours
of flailing
at those many
small pockets
and pools
Soon
convinced me
that flyfishing
could really
be fun.
But,
a bit of background
on this flyfishing
bit:
My
first rig was
a hand-me-down
from a neighbor
next door.
But
it was my mother,
not Hartman
Who,
in the backyard,
became my casting
mentor.
Deer
always crossed
the river at
Archer’s.
A
major run came
slanting down
the mountain
to the riverside
there.
................
Though
the mountain
was posted…off
limits to us,
With
bows/arrows,
we waded across
to ambush that
run with nary
a care.
There
was a time of
high water and
Gerald without
boots
When
I carried him
across where
the river narrows.
I
missed four
times that day,
but would say
not a word.
Midstream,
coming back,
Gerald exclaimed,
“Hey…you are
out of arrows!”
Above
Archer’s were
the Stuhlmiller
flats:
Water
so unappealing
that we seldom
fished there.
On
good days, with
water up and
temperature
down,
With
Wob-L-Rites
and Phoebes,
fishing was
only fair.
Downstream,
between Sliding
Rock and Pete’s
Were
the in-between
waters that
I liked best.
With
small pools
that were deeper;
rocks that were
bigger,
Holding
both trout and
bass that put
my fishing skills
to the test.
I
recall Gerald
and I hitting
that section
On
a long ago spring
day when his
baseball game
was washed out.
Using
Mepps and Phoebes,
we caught brooks
and browns.
For
supper that
night, we had
a fine mess
of trout.
Brian
once caught
a 17 inch brown
from that middle
water
Using
an ultra-lite
rig and live
bait.
And
Schulte and
I double teamed
a 3+ lb. smallmouth
That
even the trout
purists thought
was first rate.
Improvements
were made to
that section
in the ‘70’s.
“Going
to make it better
for fish and
fishing,” they
said.
Pool
diggers and
deflectors just
did not seem
to work.
Their
impact was only
negative on
the natural
streambed.
And,
on that down
note, I’ll end
my tale
Based
on memories
of My Beaverkill.
.............
Oh,
how I would
like to go home
and fish there
again,
But
with home no
longer there…I
never will.
And,
even if I did,
things would
be different.
Surely
the stream has
changed; I know
not what I’d
find.
So,
I’ll just sit
on the porch
and sip whiskey,
And
recall My Beaverkill
from the corners
of my mind!